


My Brothers

by Adora



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Gen, Thor: The Dark World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1949025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adora/pseuds/Adora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stand alone confession over siblings. A dark prelude to an AU Loki and Thor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Some suggested criminal acts, but nothing graphically described. Thanks in advance for reading. Reviews appreciated.

  
    I am often told how blessed I am. That Lord has graced me with divine looks, unrivalled wit, an irresistible smile....that my burgeoning youth shines above this godless hole we've been living in. Homeless sages and tripping rascals , androgynous dancers and professional beggars, they've all patted my back and whispered to me while sharing a beer or a joint “You're so much more, child”. I never spent more than a few minutes contemplating those words. How could I dare to consider myself as anyone special , when I have my brothers to compare to ? I always thought both of them were so high and above me, better in every trait nature had thrust upon us. Looks, intelligence, skills … you name it. In times of psychedelic madness, I could picture the world in a drunken state, worshipping them , succumbing with war cries to their will.  
  
   My elder brother never paid attention to those incoherent musings of mine. Tall, broad , with a cascade of golden hair crowning his head and a deep , manly voice that aroused the senses of any living being. If it wasn't for the scars furrowing his body and the occasional timeworn clothes , he would easily pass for a godlike knight , those rare times he is bathed in sunlight. The most bittersweet truth is that he purposely ignores all this potential of his. He enjoys simple things in life. A cold beer or a good joke. I still remember his thunderous laughter echoing through the raindrops , under that bridge behind the old factory, after a successful ransacking and the frenzied pursuit that followed. His statuesque figure has always been an imposing presence in the chapters of my life and a stone wall in the vain ambitions of others. To my late teens, I used to wake up at night, chased by the abstract noises of the night or the demons that stealthily stepped into my dreams. I would then tip-toe to his bed, quietly sneaking into his warm embrace of safety. Sometimes, he would open his eyes and playfully scold me for my insecurity.  
  
“Now, aren't you a bit old for this?” he would wholeheartedly smile before pulling me in. He'd hold me tight until the steady , strong tempo of his heart under his bare chest lulled me back to sleep.  
  
   The last years he decided to stay out of any outright criminal behaviour. He worked as a bouncer for a short while, but soon his charisma pushed him up the nightlife's ladder , to his dismay not without some mafia branches involved. Ever since, chicks from any social level have been forming rows just to please his carnal needs. At the same time he found some solace in confronting scums till dawn. Yet, the life of an outlaw had always been an unbearable burden on his well shaped shoulders. Quite a few times he struggled to change the flow of his fate river. He would find a decent job, faithful to this rotten society's standards, in a hopeless attempt to grasp normality for a while. But the daily troubles me and my other brother were trapping ourselves into, kept bringing him back to this moldy reality of corruption.  
  
  My other brother. The yin to my elder one's yang. The nadir to his zenith. The sinister moonlight to his torrential sunbeam. Dark and lonely. Cunning and perceptive. Dashing and audacious. In one word, beautiful. This type of eerie beauty that makes the souls weep in marvel. An ace of mischief, it has always been a toy-ride for him to invade people's lives like a cyclone, get what he desires and abandon them amazed and bewildered. Few though would ever fathom the solemn life disguised as his trademark grin. Many would render his intentions malicious, to the point of misunderstanding his whole existence. Like one lazy dusk in a notorious hovel which served as a bar.  
  
“Doll, your brother... he is the devil himself.”  
“Well, you know how Loki is. Impish, sexed up...hard to resist.”  
I chuckled through the barmaiden's rings of smoke. She abruptly grabbed my arm. Fear was colouring her voice, disdain her smudged with make up eyes.  
  
“No! He is...the things I have seen him done”  
  
One thing about me is certain; I do not tolerate garbage misjudging my brothers. One swift move was enough and my sharpened dagger – gift of the “Devil” himself – was already pointing that worthless creature's throat.  
  
“Darla, why don't you make yourself worthy and go check on your baby daughter, huh? She is crying upstairs”  
  
Till this day, I am not sure how I had heard the baby's soft cry coming from the top floor. Not that it mattered, the bitch had received the message.  
  
   It's truth my younger brother has been living in the shadows for way too long, but if one gave him a chance, they wouldn't miss the honesty sparkling in his eyes. Those pools of arctic blue , full of enigma and anticipation everytime our glances are crossed. I often spy on my poor self getting lost as I stare in their depths for hours. I've seen all the emotions the human heart can bear, forming and exploding behind his irises. It was a humid afternoon , many summers ago. I was not more than 12 or 13 years old at the time, waiting at a dusty, old pub while my brothers were settling their business with the owner in the room that lead to the back yard. I remember the awful smell inside that rathole , mixing with the soggy air , making it unable to breathe. I remember the owner's elderly uncle, an old waste whose breath emanated gin, sitting beside me. I remember his sweaty palms trying to fondle me below my shirt while my eyes were glued on the back door , mentally pleading for it to open. And I remember my brothers. Bursting in like raging , north winds. Sweeping away everything at their stride..the heat...the stench...the decay.  
  
“Thor..”  
  
The only word that old parasite managed to whisper before my brother lifted him off the ground and snapped his neck with his bare hands. I had found refuge into my younger brother's tight embrace, his arms forming a sanctuary around me. I could hear the erratic pounding of his heart under his leather clad chest. I could see his eyes widening and his pupils dancing furious and wild at the scene unravelling before us.  
  
Still, I had my first client when I turned 18.  
  
   I had stood silent but adamant in the middle of our dim loft, while my eldest brother, Thor, was smashing every unlucky obstacle found on his way. He was pacing up and down, like a bull out of control, fuming and threatening Gods and Demons . His once dazzling, deep blues were now hammering me with a mix of desperation and rage. And yet, I remained cold and thunderstruck at the spot, my stubbornness sieging the reigns of my mind.  
  
“Just let her do what she wants”  
  
It was Loki who finally spoke with a hint of calmness and defeat in his voice. Thor had cast an angry glance full of bitterness at him , before storming out of the loft and into the rainy darkness. For the next two weeks, he refused to talk to us. That night, for the first time, my younger brother turned his tearful gaze at me , revealing the weight of responsibility he had always carried over me. That unique moment he allowed me to witness his guilt for not protecting me enough, has been clawing into my soul to this very day.  
  
“I'm sorry, Ingrid”  
  
   In the following months, Loki introduced me to his underground world of fallen morals and debauchery. Sex, alcohol, gambling, drugs, everything was reaching gigantic proportions in our adventure of the mind and senses. I got to know some of his own clients and, in a few occasions, we even shared some of these men and women together. It was throughout these unhallowed days of mine that I realised one cannot become a saint until he sees them all. He tastes them all. And he rejects them all. Often the bottom of the pit is too sweet to let it go, but you eventually climb back up. Slowly, I came to comprehend the tremendous power I held over both sexes. I taught myself to handle money and souls in a unique way and, eventually, I gained the recognition I had always been craving for. The last years I have become eclectic , leaving the shady times behind and marking the streets as my own. Not without earning my brothers' content nod of pride first.  
  
   And still, there's something not quite right. An undefinable piece has always been missing from the puzzle of our lives. It has always been in some corner of our minds' maze, teasing us with its inexplicable absence. Back in time, something had happened to us, only we were miserably unable to place it. Something I was too young to remember and they should have been too old to forget. And yet , they had forsaken it. Emptiness and confusion were shadowing their early years. Throughout endless summers and frozen winters, we had paved our paths as orphans. That portrayal of life was the only one we felt familiar with. But the unsettling idea that something had been stolen from us finally nested in my thoughts last summer. I had convinced my brothers to embark on a road trip, down the green valleys beyond the city's medley. It was one of the rare luxuries we had ever permitted ourselves to experience. On the 3rd day of our trip, we pulled over a farm that had caught fire. My brothers rushed inside the burning woodwork and rescued the children of two families. I can still call to mind the aftermath of their spontaneous heroism. Sobbing women trying to kiss their saviors' hands , men lifting them on their shoulders and raising glasses to their honour. Their names reverberated through the surrounding pine woods for hours. No one knew our gloomy background, no one cared where these three mysterious wanderers were heading to next. We ended up staying two more nights in the little village in the middle of nowhere, and for the first time I could finally behold the glorious purpose my brothers had always been destined for, shaping before my hypnotized eyes. The images of Thor blushing while surrounded by those people and their genuine devotion, or Loki gifting children with a generous smile while they joyfully danced around him, shall always remain engraved in my memory. Something must have happened to us, because we were indeed capable for so much more.  
  
   Two nights ago, Thor returned home with a small treasure inside his massive hands. It was a small action figure given to him by a young boy ,whose immigrant mother patiently cleaned day and night the nasty pub down the road. The action figure presented some unknown hero of a different era, with an imposing silver helmet and a striking, crimson cape. He apparently used to hold something dearly in his right hand, but the figure was very old and parts of it were missing. My brother kept examining the battered toy pensively.  
  
“No doubt he is a prince. Aren't they all?.. Yeah, a strong muscled prince. And, he flies.”  
“How you know?”  
His honey brows blended as he stared at the toy perplexed.  
“I don't know. I just..do”.  
  
   Sometimes , I question myself, wondering if I tend to overthink our past secrets and , thus, overshadow the chances for a better present. And then, some other times, as the nightsky slowly gives its scepter to a chilling dawn, I quietly listen to Loki's mumbling during his sleep. He never remembers a single detail of his visions in the mornings and even though my brother is an infamous trickster, his honesty towards me is unmistakable. Hence, I stopped long ago asking him about his vivid imagination or trying to interpret the scenes developing behind his closed eyelids. Lately, his obscure murmurs have turned more frequent and repeatitive. He whispers about lights.. frost...cold...until the same name comes to his lips over and over.  
  
“Frigga” and within his nightmare, he smiles.  
  
   I am often told how blessed I am. That Lord has graced me with unparalleled virtues. I always shake my head at those naïve people, for His blessing to me has always been one and the same; my brothers.  
  
  



End file.
